


wok hei

by Horsantula



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: 12x100, Blood, Chinese Food, Dallas Steaks (Blaseball Team), Fire, Food, Gen, Grand Siesta, Incineration, Seasons 10-11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29724057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horsantula/pseuds/Horsantula
Summary: Kit Adamses loves Chinese food, and hates blaseball.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	wok hei

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to the 12x100 format goes to [Lewis Attilio](https://pigeonize.medium.com) and to crookedsaint for bringing it over to blaseball!
> 
> For those who don't know, Kit Adamses joined the league after the Season 9 incineration of August Mina by Kill Your Darling. At just half a pitching star, they are currently the worst active pitcher in the league. They own a food truck, Adams's, that serves Chinese food.
> 
> EDIT: After partying on Season 12, Day 99, Kit now has ONE pitching star and is no longer the worst pitcher in the league!! I cried.

1.

There’s something soothing in the repetitive motion of a cleaver. The crisp sound as it slices through stalks of gai lan and minces garlic, the solid _thunk_ against the board. You’ve done it for so long you don’t even need to look down anymore, hands moving confidently. 

A tremor of heat rolls up your body, throwing your world out of focus. You flinch, and the cleaver slips, nicking your hand. When you open your eyes, you’re standing breathless in a blaseball dugout and you can see your friend on the field, aflame. Blood drips off your finger into the dirt.

2.

The first person you call is your mother. You tell her that you can’t come for dim sum this weekend, you have practice. You can’t explain because every time you try to form the word _blaseball_ in your mouth you see August burning and your throat closes up.

She says she never thought you’d be interested in splorts.

You didn’t think so either. 

She says it’s a shame you can’t make it, but she’ll save you some egg tarts to pick up later.

You don’t have the heart to tell her that there’s almost no chance you’ll be able to.

3.

You run your fingers over the seam of the ball and it feels leaden in your hand. You throw it and it lands with a _thunk_ in the dirt twenty feet from the mound. Heat rushes to your face. When you dare to look up at your teammates, all you see is pity. Disappointment, too. An ace pitcher could’ve filled August’s spot, but they got you instead.

On the next pitch you throw the ball as hard as you can, to no improvement. Your shoulder throbs, and the ice you put on it afterwards radiates chills through your whole body.

4.

The wok is ripping hot, the oil starting to smoke. Wok hei, it’s called, when the high temperature imbues the stir fry with a transient smokiness. It thrilled you before, navigating the precarious balance between charred and burnt. But now, as the flames lick the side of the wok and catch the food inside, the intense heat just makes you queasy.

You look away for a second and when you look back, the food is inedible, burnt past the point of salvation. You cough, not sure if your eyes are welling because of the smoke, or if you’re just crying.

5.

The first time you hear the word “worst” attached to your name it feels like hot oil splashed on your skin. Worst pitcher, not only on the Steaks, but the entire league. 

On your off days you sneak into the bullpen at daybreak, feet squelching across the dewy grass. Squeeze your eyes closed until the perfect pitch is emblazoned in the dark, and try to execute it. You repeat the motion until your arm is heavy. The week before playoffs Phil ambushes you as you pull up in your minivan, and sternly tells you that this is not constructive behavior. 

6.

Your only consolation is that, out of all of the teams you could have joined, the Steaks understand food.

The cookouts are a boisterous affair, regardless of whether the team wins or loses. Your teammates are busy chatting and playing cornhole on the diamond, but you stick by the food. Hovering next to the grill, you watch Conner put on a steak. He handles the tongs with nearly as much dexterity as he swings the bat. When a drop of fat catches the coals below and flares up, a burst of flame erupting over the grates, he doesn’t even flinch. 

7.

Blooddrain is your second least favorite weather. Inevitably, it coats the stadium in a slick layer of the stuff, staining your shoes and splattering your uniform. No matter how fastidiously you clean them afterwards, the blood finds its way into your other life, staining your sneakers, your apron, even your pillow.

You’re accustomed to mess. Before blaseball, you associated it with a long day’s work at the truck, the food scraps piled in your compost bin that would one day become rich soil. You used to like it, but now no matter how much you scrub, some bloodstains still linger. 

8.

The Steaks have made the playoffs six times, yet never won a round. This season, the team is tied against the Magic, and the tiebreaker falls on you. Your stomach plummets when you see your name next to a 30% chance of winning. 

The game is in Dallas, making your inevitable letdown of the team even more humiliating. Your arm, which you used to trust so much, falters. Under the flaming, fathomless gaze of Coach, you give up three runs in just the first inning. Afterwards, you dodge your teammates’ condescension and huddle in the shower until your fingers shrivel. 

9.

Siesta will be a reprieve, you think. Some days you wake up and only know the lazy comfort of your room before you remember. Other days, flames consume your dreams, and you wake up in a cold sweat.

You bury your uniform and glove deep in your locker and resolve to forget about it for as long as you can. But it’s not until someone recognizes you at the grocery store that you realize that’s impossible. You peer at your reflection in the murky glass of the lobster tank and wonder when exactly you stopped being who you were before.

10.

Wok hei is a tricky thing to achieve. You prevent the food from burning by vigorously tossing it in the wok. The high heat and smoking particles of oil caramelize the food, imparting that prized charred flavor.

When you return to the truck and fire up the burner, you find your arm, exhausted from two seasons of pitching, isn’t the same as before. You lose nearly half the rice onto the counter and when the oil in the wok ignites, you feel the urge to back away. But you don’t. You won’t let blaseball take anything more away from you.

11.

The thing is, you don’t even have a choice. Blaseball takes what it takes, and you have to deal with it. 

So you do. You spend all your time at the truck, toil over the flame until your arm recovers and the flare-ups no longer faze you. You give talks to the community about home cooking and compost, yet invariably someone will be more interested in your blaseball career.

You realize that blaseball will always be haunting you. You hope there’s some parallel universe where your alternate blissfully goes about their day, oblivious of the life they just barely avoided.

12.

Before the siesta ends, you invite your teammates over for hot pot. Sitting at the table, vying to nab pieces of bok choy floating in the broth, you pause to take their faces in, stowing this moment away to savor later. 

In a matter of weeks, the Dallas skyline outside your apartment window could be Chicago, or Miami, or even the dark murkiness of the Trench. You don’t think about that. Reckless, you spoon the scalding broth down your throat. It burns on the way down, like a Fire Eater dodging fate. You hope your own fate might spare you.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> After I wrote that first Kit Adamses fic in November I got very attached. I wish them luck in their post-siesta games, and if they happened to get some pitching buffs too I wouldn't mind!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
